The Screaming of the Lambs
by GageWhitney
Summary: She knows Rick is talking and it's probably important, but she can't get the sound of that awful screaming out of her head.


Title: The Screaming of the Lambs

Author: GageWhitney

Rating: T

Pairing: Daryl/Andrea

Disclaimer: Very much not mine.

Summary: She knows Rick is talking and it's probably important, but she can't get the sound of that awful screaming out of her head.

Note: AU for the finale. I keep playing with this, and I'm trying to work through some writer's block, so I hope it's not too wonky.

* * *

When Carol goes down, there's nothing Andrea can do but watch.

It's all too fast, too loud, too much. One moment, she spins to take out a walker, shooting it point blank in the head, and the next she hears a bloodcurdling scream only a few feet behind her.

She spins again to find a walker biting into the side of Carol's neck, its rotting hands locked around her arms as it digs in. Blood gushes from the wound, spilling onto Carol's sweater and the piece of wood she'd attempted to use as a weapon, and Andrea know she's too late to save the older woman.

For a moment, she's frozen, watching in horror as Carol wails and moans and the walkers tears her flesh apart with its ugly teeth and bony hands.

They lock eyes, and Andrea's surprised to find a sort of resignation staring back at her. She wants to reach out for her friend, wants to sink to the ground and just give up and weep, but only a few seconds have passed and the walkers are still there, still moving toward them.

With one last look, Andrea takes off at a sprint, leaving poor Carol behind and running through whatever open space she can find.

Briefly, she wishes she'd had time to stop and take Carol out with a bullet.

There's a few geeks coming toward her, and she picks off the closest ones easily, counting in her head the number of bullets she uses. Up ahead is a dirt road that cuts through the back of the farm, and she makes it her goal to get there, at least, without getting bit.

As she gets closer, she can make out the sound of Daryl's motorcycle and runs toward it, waving her arms wildly.

"Hey!" she yells, her lungs burning with the effort. "Daryl!"

He spots her and speeds over, stopping the bike a few yards away. "Come on! I ain't got all day!"

She throws herself onto the back of the bike and holds on tight as he motors away. She glances back, once, and tries to blink back a sudden onslaught of tears.

"Carol," she chokes out, leaning forward to put her mouth against his ear.

He glances back at her, their cheeks brushing. "What about her?"

"I couldn't…" She sniffles and composes herself. "I tried to save her."

She feels his entire body tense at her words, and her tears flow freely at the loss of their friend. He accelerates, out of anger or frustration or just to get the hell out of Dodge, and she pulls herself in closer, her wet cheek pressed against the angel wings on the back of his vest.

* * *

The group meets up at the highway, hugging everyone they never thought they'd see again while doing mental headcounts of their surviving comrades.

"Where's Carol?" Lori asks. Her voice trembles, like she already knows the answer.

Andrea feels her face crumble, and she stares down at her feet, unable to meet their gazes. "Carol, uh…"

Before she can continue, Daryl speaks up beside her. "Didn't make it," he says succinctly.

Someone starts crying – Lori, maybe, or Beth – but Andrea can't look up. She keeps seeing Carol, that thing biting into her flesh, her mouth twisted and crying out in anguish. She knows Rick is talking and it's probably important, but she can't get the sound of that awful screaming out of her head.

Daryl nudges her, and she snaps her head up to look at him. "C'mon. Let's go," he says, his voice quiet.

She nods, and climbs onto the back of the bike, hugging her arms tightly across his body. The headache she's developed seems to lessen when she presses her forehead against the nape of his neck.

* * *

Later that night, Rick and Hershel keep watch while everyone tries to get some rest, dozing around a dying fire. Andrea sticks close to Daryl's side, leaning up against a large log.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice quiet.

She steels herself and watches his face as she carefully recounts the event, minus the gory details. "I saw her trying to fend one off with a piece of wood, so I ran over to help. I took care of that walker, and had to turn my back to her because one was coming up behind me." She sighs. "The one that got her… He must've been on her other side. By the time I realized what was happening…"

Daryl grits his teeth and nods briskly. It's a few minutes before he speaks again, and Andrea can't bring herself to look away from him.

Finally, he asks, "A piece of wood?"

"Yeah."

He shakes his head. "Always was shit with weapons."

She gives him a sad smile, because she can see his defenses going up, that he's trying to keep himself from having to feel it too much. "I'm sorry," she says. "I know you were close." She hates how fucking trite it sounds.

He shrugs, focusing on smoothing his fingers along the line of one of his newer bolts. "I guess."

"God, if I'd just –"

"What?" he asks, cutting her short. He narrows his eyes at her. "Ain't nothing you could've done without killing yourself, too."

She nods, and suddenly there's tears in her eyes threatening to spill over. "I wish I'd gotten just a moment to think," she says. "Everything was just happening so fast, and I just… I left her, and she… I could've made things easier for her."

Pain flashes across his features, and Daryl scrubs a hand down his face, sniffing quietly. "Can't focus on what we could've done."

Hot tears track clear paths down her dirty face, and she wipes them away quickly. "I know," she nods.

Cautiously, she presses her body closer to his, seeking the warmth and comfort of another person and knowing that, somewhere, he must need the same thing. When he doesn't pull away, she rests her head on his shoulder.

She reaches over and plucks the bolt he's fiddling with from his fingers, placing it on the ground beside his crossbow. "Get some rest," she says.

"Yeah," he mumbles.

* * *

It's still mostly dark when she wakes, her head resting comfortably on Daryl's lap.

He's got one hand tangled in her hair while the other rests against her neck, his arm curled protectively across her shoulder. She twists slightly to look up at him and can see he'd fallen asleep with his head tilted at an uncomfortable looking angle, his chin propped against his chest.

Try as she might, she's unable to move off of him without waking him up, his hold on her hair tightening painfully before he blinks and realizes where he is. She stares up at him, and he stares down at her, until she gives him a small smile and he releases his grip on her.

Andrea pushes herself slowly into a sitting position, her sore muscles a reminder of the night before.

"Thanks," she says, her voice sheepish and quiet in the early light of morning. "For letting me sleep on you."

He nods once and starts twisting his neck from side to side, trying to work out the kinks.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," he grumbles. "Just got a crick."

She catches his eyes and resists the sudden urge to touch his face. "That's not what I mean."

He ceases his movements, a hand on the back of his neck, and nods. "I'm fine," he says, and she thinks he's full of shit.

Neither of them, she thinks, is fine.

Dusting dirt from her jeans, she just nods and rises to her feet. "I'm going to find Rick," she says. "See what the game plan is."

She squeezes his shoulder as she moves past him.

* * *

They don't dawdle at their makeshift campsite; there's no food, no water, nothing keeping them there but a slight reluctance to move on.

When the caravan prepares to move out, she watches him climb onto the back of his motorcycle with her lower lip between her teeth. There's probably room for her to squeeze into one of the vehicles, but if she's honest with herself, she'd rather stick by his side.

She's between approaching him to ask and not when he looks back at her and nods toward the seat behind him. "You coming?"

Flashing a small smile, she nods and slings her bag across her chest before tucking herself behind him.

She lets her hands rest on his hips, her fingers seeking purchase by curling themselves into his belt loops. When he starts the chopper, the sudden loud, growling rumble of the engine surrounds her, sending vibrations up and down her body.

Partly out of fear of falling off, partly because she needs it (and she thinks he might, too), she pulls herself in closer, making her fingers meet around his middle. She's surprised by the rough hand that briefly brushes across her knuckles before shooting back up to the handlebars.

"Hang on tight, now," he says over the roaring engine.

Andrea nods, her chin rubbing against the worn leather, and gives him the briefest of smiles when he glances back at her.

"Don't worry," she says. Her thumb rubs absently at his stomach underneath the vest. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

They drive, and drive, and drive, for what feels like days on end, but is actually only hours.

Occasionally, they get a totally free and clear stretch of asphalt where she can simply watch the road rush up under the chopper's tires, but more often than not, the driving involves a lot of weaving around abandoned vehicles and both dead and undead bodies.

They make stops along the way so they can siphon more gas and consult a map Glenn had found in someone's glove compartment. Andrea and Daryl get off the motorcycle to stretch their legs and pick through vehicles, but she finds that there's never more than ten feet of space between them.

She's not sure if it's a totally conscious thing on either of their parts.

Whenever they get back on the motorcycle, she's more comfortable, her hands quickly becoming used to being tucked around him. Her fingers wander, brushing along his belt, and she feels him tense up before relaxing into her touch.

* * *

On one stop, everyone's quietly picking through cars when Glenn's panicked voice suddenly dominates the silence.

"Walkers! Oh, shit! A lot of walkers!"

Everyone's heads whip around, straining to see over the cars. The herd coming through certainly isn't the biggest they've ever seen, but it's more geeks than they care to deal with nonetheless.

"Everybody hide," Rick instructs calmly. "Now. Under the cars!"

Daryl grabs Andrea's upper arm and pulls her to the ground beside him. His arm moves to her back, and he urges her under a nearby truck.

"Go, go, go!" he whisper-shouts.

She starts to move, and turns her head back to look for him, because she can still hear Carol screaming, and she'll be damned if she's going to let him get himself bit.

"I'm right behind you," he says, pushing her butt. "Go."

They scoot under the vehicle, shoulder to shoulder. His breath is hot on the back of her neck as they wait for the dead to pass.

* * *

They find a dusty pickup truck in decent condition during the next stop and decide they're tired of being within arm's length of the walkers. Daryl loads his brother's bike onto the flatbed, and Andrea hauls herself up into the driver's seat so he can take a break.

"You couldn't have slept well last night," she says when he protests.

"I slept fine."

She fixes him with her best no-nonsense lawyer face. "Sleep," she says, and turns the engine over. "I've got this."

He grumbles, but finally nods and leans back in the seat, attempting to make himself comfortable. She rolls her eyes and pulls on his collar, yanking until he grumbles some more and stretches as best as he can across the bench seat.

The top of his head rests against her leg, and she scratches her fingers absently through his hair.

* * *

Just before nightfall, they find what used to be a bed and breakfast, tucked into the woods on a side road just off the interstate. It's an old, Victorian-style home, with bright yellow paint and a wraparound porch and dead flowers lining the walkway.

The group pairs up to search the entirety of the house and yard, finding a large living space with a kitchen and guest rooms and, most importantly, no occupants, living or otherwise.

"What do you think?" Andrea says, eying Daryl and Rick.

Rick shrugs, and addresses the group. "Why don't we hole up here a while?" His voice is weary. "Collect ourselves for the night, at least."

"Good a place as any," Daryl agrees. He glances at Andrea, and she nods.

Doors are locked and shades are drawn, and the group trudges further into the house, setting down their few belongings and moving to look around a bit.

Glenn announces that he's found food in the kitchen cabinets and more in the cellar, and they all allow themselves a relieved chuckle at their good fortune. When Lori automatically looks for Carol to help prepare a dinner, she breaks down in tears when she remembers that the other woman is gone.

Andrea glances at Daryl, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, and takes Lori by the arm. "I'll help you," she says quietly, steering her toward the kitchen.

Daryl follows and mumbles that he can cut vegetables, at least.

* * *

Dinner is quiet, somber, the entire group seated around a long, old-fashioned wooden dining table, bathed in the light of flickering candles. The weight of their missing comrades hangs heavy in the air; people who should be there, people were there only a couple of days prior, people whose losses are still fresh and painful and incomprehensible.

The quiet is too much for Andrea to take. There's nothing to occupy her mind, no rumbling engine or small talk or tasks to be completed, and all she's left with is Carol's face, her cries and the popping of gunfire still ringing in her ears.

So she clears her throat, stands, and raises her glass. "To those we lost," she says, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "To Carol."

Hershel raises his glass next. "To Patricia."

"To Jimmy," Beth sobs.

Everyone follows suit, lifting their glasses in a brief salute before taking a sip. Andrea sits back down, and feels Daryl reach over to squeeze her knee. She turns to look at him and finds him watching her. She nods, once, and he returns it.

His hand stays on her leg.

* * *

Later on, after she's relieved of watch duty by T-Dog, Andrea slips into Daryl's darkened room, carefully closing the door behind her. It's late, but he's awake anyway, and he squints at her in the darkness.

"We're, uh… We're out of rooms," she says, and it sounds lame even to her ears. "So."

He nods, sitting up a little in the bed. "So."

She toes off her boots and crosses the room to the bed, flipping up the sheets to crawl in beside him. He's wearing his boxer shorts and nothing else, and she glances down at her jeans and sweater with a frown.

There's a moment where she thinks about asking permission, but she decides he won't care when she strips down to her tank top and underwear and slides between the cool sheets.

Like the night before, she presses herself against his side. Like the night before, he doesn't pull away.

"My ears are still ringing," she tells him, her chin resting on his shoulder.

He nods. "It'll stop soon," he says.

"Promise?"

"No."

He lets her hold him close, lets her draw circles on his skin with her fingers, lets her press her lips to his cheek and his mouth and the column of his throat. She slides her leg around his hips, leaning over him, and her hair curtains around her face when he pulls it out of its elastic band.

His fingers find their way under the hem of her tank top and skim along the line of her panties. Her fingers dip below the waistband of his shorts and pull a groan from the back of his throat.

He's solid and warm and Daryl, and when he touches the backs of her legs with rough fingers and rocks his hips up into hers, she forgets about the screams ringing in her ears.

She feels alive, and she thinks maybe he does, too.


End file.
